


Firm Haunches

by ErinPtah



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - No Spouse, Dom/sub, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Puppy Play, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2018-10-03 00:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10231073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: Jon has a thing for Stephen. Stephen maybe has a thing for Jon. Stephendefinitelyhas a thing for pretending to be a dog.Once the idea has a chance to sink in, Jon discovers he's more than okay with this.





	1. Firm Haunches

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a series of TCR clips, starting with February 11, 2009.
> 
> Stephen can't understand why -- as a human with firm haunches, a silky coat, and a talent for obeying orders -- he [isn't allowed to win a dog show](http://www.cc.com/video-clips/l5ealo/the-colbert-report-westminster-dog-show-snub---formula-40-woof).

"The judges must have been bribed," declared Stephen. "It's the only explanation."

Jon picked at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. "You know, Stephen, it might have something to do with the fact that it was a dog show."

"Doesn't mean they have to give first prize to a dog every time! That would be speciesist! No, the panel is clearly in the pocket of Big Canine."

"I don't think there's any such thing...."

"I mean, I have floppy ears!" continued Stephen, steamrolling right over Jon's attempt at logic. "And just look at these firm haunches!"

Before Jon quite knew what was happening, Stephen was standing in front of him, one hip thrust into his face.

"Um," he stammered. "They're very firm, yes."

"Exactly! And I would run circles around the other contestants in the obedience section, too. You watch."

He stood defiantly for a minute, until Jon ventured, "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Well, you have to give me an order first, Jon!" snapped Stephen, planting his hands on his hips as though to indicate that he had just about _had_ it with Jon's lack of telling him what to do, mister.

Okay, clearly he was in one of those moods where the only way out was to play along. Jon took a deep, slow breath to steady himself, then said, "Uh, sit."

Stephen dropped promptly to the ground and gave him an annoyed look, as if to say, _That all you got?_

"Lie down?"

Now Stephen was splayed on his side, body arched, jacket and tie flopping aside to show off the tummy of his white shirt front.

The pose was giving Jon ideas he probably shouldn't be thinking about. "Roll over," he said quickly; but the way Stephen writhed during this move just made it worse. Time to switch tactics.

On top of one of the piles on his overloaded desk was a novelty frisbee, maybe four inches across, with a sponsor's logo emblazoned on the top. Stretching out his arm as far as it would go, Jon hooked his fingertips under the rim and snapped it up.

"See this?" he asked, and was answered by the way Stephen's eyes tracked the thing as he waved it back and forth. "Fetch."

Stephen was in the air almost before the frisbee. For a split second Jon thought he might actually catch it in his mouth, and was all set to be very impressed. Then it soared over his head, bounced lightly off the brick, and landed upside-down next to the corner of his desk.

The small office, Jon reflected, as Stephen nearly collided with a chair in his efforts to get to his target, might not be the best place for this.

But then Stephen was on all fours in front of him, proudly displaying his prize in his mouth, and Jon found himself reaching out with every intention of throwing it again.

Stephen wouldn't let go.

Jon tugged again, just in case he hadn't been pulling hard enough. But no, the other man's teeth were very deliberately clamped shut.

Without stopping to think about it, Jon cupped Stephen's jaw with a firm grip and massaged. A second later the toy popped forward into his waiting hand.

At the expression on Stephen's face when he realized what had happened, Jon actually raised an eyebrow and held up the frisbee in triumph. Triumph! Like he'd just scored a major blow in a fast-paced battle of wits, instead of outsmarting a man who was routinely run circles around by his own visual aids.

He resolved, not for the first time, to stop getting so swept up in Stephen's emotional tides.

Then the other man broke into a look of forlorn confusion that would have given a genuine puppy a run for its money, and it would have taken a heart of stone to resist skritching his head a little. Just above that floppy ear.

Smiling hopefully, Stephen nudged his head against Jon's palm, so that Jon found himself putting the frisbee aside in order to have both hands free for extra-good rubbing.

He could be doing any number of productive things right now. But there was so much...peace, in this moment. Such a feeling of contentment. Two or three perfectly good minutes sacrificed themselves in order to keep it going.

The effect was so absorbing that Jon didn't think anything of it when Stephen's front paws (hands. Hands!) were planted on his knees. When Stephen rose up in front of him and leaned in, hands scrabbling for support on his thighs, it seemed only natural. When a warm tongue licked a stripe up the side of his cheek, well, okay, that was a little weird, but it was also probably the most affectionate thing Stephen had ever done to him, so he wasn't about to complain.

Then all of a sudden one of Stephen's hands was pawing almost right between his legs, breath hot on his neck.

Jon choked back a gasp. It had to be part of the game — Stephen would never make an advance that blatant — which meant he didn't dare treat it like a come-on. Though it sure wasn't easy at this range to pretend it wasn't affecting him like one.

When Stephen pulled away anyhow, Jon was afraid he had somehow gone too far.

Then he realized that the other man didn't look indignant so much as afraid. Scared that the game had gone too far, or that his advance had been turned down?

Reaching forward, Jon cupped Stephen's face in his hands. He could stop to work out the specifics later. Right now he needed to be reassuring.

"You're a good boy, Stephen," he said, no longer sure himself how much of it was play.

Stephen whined a little and began to inch forward.

Lifting Stephen's hands in his own, Jon moved them back to his knees. Even assuming he wasn't completely jumping the gun here, he wasn't sure he wanted their first time to happen while Stephen was...well, barking.

"Good boy," he repeated, pressing a kiss to the bridge of Stephen's nose. "Down."

Stephen settled to the ground at his feet.

For a moment they sat in uncertain silence. Jon wavered over whether to rest a hand on Stephen's head again. Just as he was about to move, the other man spoke.

"You see?" he demanded, snapping his fingers. "I would have the obedience category locked up like _that_."

A tension he hadn't realized was there drained from Jon, as though he'd been holding his breath this whole time and only just allowed himself to let it out. "You would," he agreed. "You certainly would."


	2. Silky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few false starts and missed opportunities, Jon gets himself a boyfriend. Pet. Whatever.
> 
> Refers to the segments where Stephen eats [Fancy Feast out of fine china](http://www.cc.com/video-clips/cctfpl/the-colbert-report-stephen-s-fancy-feast) (5/11/09), and [ice cream out of a dog bowl](http://www.cc.com/video-clips/nlng6v/the-colbert-report-operation-iraqi-stephen---tom-hanks-care-package) (6/10/09, to the consternation of Tom Hanks).

Stephen made everything complicated.

Jon wanted him. On the face of it, that seemed simple enough. Neither of them were married, they shared a basic appreciation for the less fair sex, and in spite of everything they did quite like each other.

On the other hand, Stephen walked around with a faux-gold ring on his finger, loudly told anyone who would listen that he was straight as an arrow (a comparison that always put Jon in mind of road signs signaling U-turns), and had been known to publicly disavow any knowledge of Jon's existence. And the closest he had come to actually propositioning Jon was while pretending to be a dog.

(Stephen also made everything weird.)

It happened again on the day Stephen showed up early for lunch.

Okay, "early" by Stephen's standards meant "only five minutes late, instead of fifteen." Still, Jon was so used to this that he had planned on having the extra time, and he was in the middle of a script revision when his friend burst in. It didn't help that Stephen was at his most bloviating, wrapped up in a furious rant about what seemed to be some kind of conspiracy between atheists, the weather channel, and Sir David's Long-beaked Echidna.

After a few ineffectual protests, which could barely be heard over the sound of Stephen's tramping around the office, Jon's patience ran out. In a loud, firm voice, he snapped, "Stephen, _sit!_ "

The rant switched off mid-word as Stephen dropped, not onto one of the threadbare chairs, but onto his knees on the floor where he had been pacing. It couldn't have been faster if he'd been a television and Jon had changed the channel.

For a moment they stared at each other in silence: Stephen with his back arched and fingertips splayed on the carpet for balance, Jon hunched over his desk with a page half turned.

This was a moment. This was definitely a moment.

On the other hand, he had no idea how to seize it. Besides, there was work to be done.

At last, Jon cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said gruffly. "I'll, uh, just be a minute."

He turned back to the script and made a few quick scratches with the red pen. When he looked up again, Stephen was sitting on a chair, arms folded and foot unsubtly tapping. The moment was gone.

"Jon! Hi! You can start setting up; I'll be out in a minute."

"You all right down there, Stephen?" called Jon into the indeterminate space under Stephen's C-shaped desk. He had never been brave enough to venture in; Stephen's building manager had declared the intention to map the area half a year ago, and hadn't been seen since.

"Fine!" came the echoing reply. "Just getting us some coffee. Meet you in my office?"

"Got it."

"And don't eat it all without me!"

"I won't."

Hefting himself into an upright position (when had his back gotten this old?), Jon made his way off the set and let himself into the office. There was a deli platter waiting, but no dishes or utensils. Apparently by 'start setting up' Stephen had meant 'track down forks.'

Well, there had to be a stash of dishes in one of these drawers. Probably one of the cupboards above the mini-fridge (full of water bottles, which were, in turn, full of vodka). Jon started pulling them open.

Then he stopped short.

That...was a dog bowl. No doubt about it. The thing was spotted with pale-yellow pawprints, for crying out loud.

Should he do something about it? Stephen hadn't played any part in initiating a Moment, this time. (Unless he had contrived for Jon to find the bowl while plate-hunting...and Stephen's plots tended to be much more transparent than that.) Did that mean Jon was supposed to start one? How?

He was still fretting when he caught the sound of Stephen's distinctive stomping footfalls. In a rush he retrieved two ordinary plates, along with a pair of mismatched forks, and closed the cabinets.

Together they polished off most of the deli platter. The bowl never came up. Jon was just getting up the nerve to mention it when Tom Hanks showed up to tape a segment, and Stephen kicked him out.

"I hear your coat is silky."

"Jon! I, uh, didn't hear you come in. ...What?"

"Your coat," repeated Jon, closing the door and very deliberately shuttering the blinds that hung over its glass panels. "I have it on good authority that it's especially silky. Something you eat."

Stephen shrugged facially, a maneuver that never failed to leave Jon secretly very impressed. "Well, of course. Only the fanciest of feasts."

In spite of his nonchalance, his eyes were suddenly tracking Jon very closely.

"I'd like to check it out," said Jon, then added, trying to sound authoritative, "Stay."

His voice hitched over the syllable. If Stephen had laughed, or rolled his eyes, or made any kind of snarky comment, it would have ended right there. Instead, he sat up straight and froze, only his eyes moving as they followed Jon across the room. He didn't even turn his head when Jon circled around behind the desk and began stroking his hair.

Silky didn't do the stuff justice. On-air it was gelled to shining, helmetlike perfection, but by now Stephen had been through his post-broadcast shower and blow-dry, and the thick, soft locks flowed easily between Jon's fingers. He mussed it a little, smoothed it back into place, paused to scratch affectionately behind Stephen's ears.

And with that, he realized, he was out of ideas. He lingered at the fine hairs on the nape of Stephen's neck, wishing he had thought to bring the Frisbee.

After Stephen had gone so far as to invite this on-air, Jon had rushed straight over, figuring he ought to take a hint that blatant and at least give it a shot. If only he had stopped to plan out what he was going to do first.

"I was a bad host," faltered Stephen.

Jon, who had expected Stephen to go silent again, jumped at the words. At the motion, Stephen went rigid under his hands, as if realizing he had broken an unwritten rule.

Anxious to reassure him, Jon found himself slipping into his talking-to-pets-and-small-children voice. "How were you a bad host?"

"With Tom Hanks," continued Stephen, voice gaining strength. "I tried to eat the ice cream, even after he told me not to."

Okay, Jon couldn't wait to see this segment now. "That was bad," he agreed, still petting Stephen. "But I think you could be a good host if you tried. Do you want to try?"

Now Stephen did turn, wide eyes locking onto Jon as he nodded eagerly.

"Good boy," said Jon, giving Stephen's hair one more quick rub before stepping away. "Stay. Stay...."

If Stephen was surprised that Jon found the red-and-yellow dish so quickly, he didn't show it. Nor did he react as Jon dug out some leftover cold chicken from the fridge and filled it up.

"Ah, ah, ah," he chided as Stephen leaned almost imperceptibly towards the bowl, resting it on the desk and pushing the other man gently back with a finger on his nose. "Down, boy." He stepped back, took a deep breath, and added, "Come."

Casting another longing look at the chicken, Stephen slid down from his chair, and emerged from behind the desk on his hands and knees.

Jon racked his brain for half-remembered scraps of conversation from friends who did dog shows. "Do you know how to stack?"

Stephen promptly stood to attention, limbs straight and (paws) planted in a perfect rectangle on the floor, shoulders back and chin up. Great. He knew more about this than Jon did.

Time to wing it.

Summoning all his most-trusted-name-in-fake-news authority, Jon hummed in appraisal as he ran his hands along the line of Stephen's back, letting one rest on Stephen's tailbone while the other slid up the man's neck. He made little adjustments to the positions of Stephen's hands, to the tilt of his jaw. Stephen submitted quietly to the examination, though his pulse was racing under Jon's fingertips.

"That's it," murmured Jon at last, backing up to view his handiwork. As an afterthought, he slipped off the other man's glasses. "That's it. Good boy. Stay there, now." Leaning over to the desk, he put the glasses down and snatched a piece of chicken. "Hold it. Hold...Okay! C'mere!"

Stephen lunged with an enthusiasm that nearly bowled Jon over, scarfing up the entire treat in one bite. At least he managed to chew a few times before gulping it down and lapping at Jon's fingers for any flavor that was left.

As he raised his free hand to rub Stephen's silky hair some more, Jon started to giggle. It was completely absurd, but it was also weirdly cute, and the excitement was catching. Encouraged by the sound, Stephen nuzzled Jon's chest, head bumping up under his chin, practically climbing on top of him.

With an outright laugh, Jon let himself fall backwards, hands working overtime to keep pace with Stephen's delighted wriggling. "Hey there!" he cooed. "You like that, don't you? Yes! Yes, you do!"

Somehow they ended up rolling over together, Jon's endearments lost in a flood of breathless giggling. Stephen didn't laugh, didn't make a sound except for his own heavy panting; Jon figured this was good, but didn't realize how good until he propped himself up on his hands, the better not to crush the other man, and found himself looking down at Stephen's face.

The sight sent an electric thrill through his body.

Stephen was gazing up at him with a look of pure doggy adoration. No, scratch that — it was pure _Stephen_ adoration, unfiltered by any of his usual battalion of fears and reservations, open to an extent you rarely saw on a human. Jon hadn't realized this particular human _could_ be that open.

But here he was, lying on the floor beneath Jon with tousled hair and flushed cheeks, a weak smile stretching from ear to ear in spite of his panting for breath, large dark eyes shining with love and overwhelming happiness.

And that whole spotlight of emotion was turned on Jon.

For a second his limbs went wobbly, as if his elbows might give way and send him toppling onto Stephen's heaving chest. He was dimly aware that he wore a matching dizzy smile.

"Hey there," he breathed again, voice back down from the talking-to-pets register.

Fingers closed to better approximate paws, Stephen wound his arms around Jon's neck and hoisted himself upwards. Jon thought the man was going for a kiss until he felt a hot tongue running along his cheek, not that it made his insides melt any less—

—and then Stephen _arched_ against him, erection unmistakable as it dug into his hip, and now Jon's arms really did buckle as he shuddered forward, letting loose a groan next to Stephen's hair.

With a soft whine of need Stephen made an awkward attempt to hook one leg over Jon's back, thrusting against him more insistently. Stifling his moans against the crook of Stephen's neck, Jon wrested an arm around and undid the man's pants one-handed.

Then, when a fresh round of whimpering made the throbbing in his own boxers unbearable, Jon freed his other arm and dipped under his waistband. On a job like this, paws just weren't going to cut it.

With a sigh of pure contentment Stephen flopped down on the floor beside Jon, who was too dazedly blissful to care about the sweat-dampened curls falling in his face or the twin sticky messes in each hand.

The whisper was so quiet that Jon almost took it for a stray thought: "I'm a good boy."

"You're a very good boy," murmured Jon automatically, once he realized it had been said out loud.

Stephen's tongue flicked out to daub Jon's forehead, leaving a trail of cool spots on the flushed skin. "I can have a treat?" he added, voice low against Jon's ear.

"Yes," agreed Jon, thinking of the chicken. "Yes, you can have a treat."

After nuzzling his cheek once more, Stephen drew Jon's closed hands to his chin and began lapping them clean.

Jon had been meaning to get a pet for a while now. Someone to bound into the kitchen when he pulled out the can opener, to chase a frisbee in the back yard, to curl up at the foot of his bed at night.

He had just never expected that his boyfriend would be the one to do these things. Enthusiastically. With unspeakably kinky sex thrown in. All while leading a parallel existence as friendly but mildly antagonistic normal human beings.

Stephen definitely made everything weird.

But as he snuggled up next to Jon on the bed in the evening and presented his head for scratching, Jon couldn't honestly say that he minded.


	3. Four Times Stephen Was A Good Boy, And One Time He Was Even Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three miscellaneous D/s-charged puppyplay scenes; one awkward encounter in a pet store; and one scene after [Stephen's Iraq buzz cut](http://www.cc.com/video-clips/c4z5y3/the-colbert-report-obama-orders-stephen-s-haircut---ray-odierno).

**one: lap dog**

 

"What'cha making?"

Jon dug the butter knife into the jar and carved out another crescent-moon slab of Jif. "Just sandwiches."

Stephen shuffled across the linoleum and leaned over his shoulder. "You're having peanut butter and...peanut butter?"

"Nah, PB&J. But you see," he said brightly, scraping the substance in question across a second slice of bread, "if you put peanut butter on both sides, the jelly doesn't soak through and make it all soggy."

"That's very clever, Jon. Did you think of that all by yourself?"

Jon's face fell. "Well, _I_ thought it was neat," he mumbled.

"Uh-huh. Sure." Stephen leaned into his neck, then slid one hand along Jon's sleeve down to the wrist before wrapping his fingers around the handle. "Be careful. Peanut butter gets messy, you know."

"BLTs can be messy," protested Jon feebly, as Stephen twisted the knife out of his hand. "There's the grease. And...tomato juice! That stuff will get everywhere if you let it."

"Yeah, but peanut butter...." Letting him go, Stephen leaned his elbows on the granite countertop, twirling the knife slowly in his fingers. "It's, you know, sticky. You have to put in a lot of work to get it all clean."

With that, he ran his tongue roughly up the length of the flat, lapped a few times, then took the whole blade into his mouth.

"You know," stuttered Jon, silently thanking his lucky stars that he hadn't been cutting beef a minute ago, "the circus pays good money for people with that kind of talent."

Stephen worked the knife for a few more heart-pulsing seconds before drawing it, wet and shining, from his lips. "My favorite part was always the lion tamers."

It would have taken a far stronger mind not to go fuzzy at a display like that. By the time he finally made it to the kitchen table, Jon found himself staring blankly at his plate, as if expecting advice to appear like the face of Christ on the topmost piece of bread.

Stephen, now on all fours, padded nonchalantly over to the corner and started lapping at his water dish. Any decision Jon made was going to have to happen before he started on the food heaped in the bowl beside it. (Cocoa Puffs. Stephen's penchant for canine realism only went so far.)

Oh, the hell with it. Jon swiped a finger along the inside of his sandwich, then unzipped his fly.

"Golly," he said loudly, as Stephen lifted his head from the water. "I seem to have spilled something on myself. What ever shall I do?"

Turning, Stephen trotted a few steps towards him and sniffed the air.

The hope in the man's eyes was kicking Jon's heart up a notch already. Catching his breath, he patted his leg and whistled. "Here, boy!"

He'd barely gotten the last word out before Stephen had bounded across the kitchen and slipped under the table.

**two: raining cats and...**

 

"I'm home!" called Jon, shaking the rain from his umbrella. It hadn't made a whole lot of difference, thanks to the driving winds that hadn't left an inch of him untouched, from the hair plastered to his scalp to the shoes caked with mud. He was cold, he was miserable, and he probably smelled like a wet—

"Are you alone?" came a voice from upstairs.

"Uh, yeah," replied Jon, hanging up his sopping coat and stepping gingerly out of those shoes.

"How are your clothes doing?"

Jon hooked one finger under the bunched rim of his left sock and began peeling it from his cold foot. "How do you expect?" he yelled. "They're a mess! Going straight in the laundry. What, you can't come say hi because you'll afraid the sloppy will rub off on you?"

No answer.

With a sigh, Jon pulled off the other sock and took a few steps along the rug. Not the softest thing in the world, but at least it was marginally warmer. And, hey, his damp sleeves were still un-damp enough to sop up the trickles of water that kept running down his forehead. That was something, right?

An erratic thumping from upstairs broke in on his train of thought. "Everything okay up there?"

Again, no answer. Jon started forward in earnest now, trying not to jump to any sinister conclusions—

—and then Stephen came leaping down the steps, stark naked except for a red leather collar, making his descent on two legs until he reached the bottom, at which point he dropped to all fours and pounced, hands pawing at the hem of Jon's sweatshirt and hips pumping enthusiastically against his thigh.

Jon stumbled backwards from sheer astonishment. Somehow he held onto the presence of mind to land himself on the floor without falling there. Somehow, too, Stephen's eyes stayed locked on his the whole time, glowing with love, the bottom half of his face split into a delighted grin.

"Happy to see you," he chanted, nuzzling Jon's stomach with his chin and rocking the rest of his body against Jon's legs, like it wasn't about the frottage at all, like it was all part and parcel of a craving to just _touch_ Jon, in as many ways as possible. "Happy to see you. Happy to see you...."

"Stephen, my Stephen," panted Jon, "so, so glad to be back."

**three: shaggy dog story**

 

With the exception of his head, Stephen was much too lightly furred to ever need a really thorough scrubbing. The idea hadn't even occurred to Jon until the day he found a rough-bristled brush sitting pointedly next to his aftershave.

Later that same weekend that they found time to get to Stephen's favorite park, the one where he could catch Frisbees to his heart's content without looking terribly out-of-place to anyone who happened to stumble through the trees. He came home sweaty, dusty, and grass-stained, still bouncing with energy as Jon hustled him into the tub.

At first Jon tried to follow their usual pattern, taking the opportunity to lavish calm, detailed attention on Stephen's pliant seal-like form. Apparently "pliant" was not in the cards today. The bathroom rugs, Jon's clothes, and anything else directly in the line of fire ended up spattered with dirt and suds.

"Fine," he sighed, as Stephen panted at him, to all appearances blissfully ignorant of his own rambunctiousness. "You need to be wrangled today? Because I can wrangle, sir. I can wrangle with the best of them."

Stephen, unrepentant, licked his nose.

"That's it," declared Jon, and grabbed the brush.

At the sight, Stephen perked up — and then Jon actually bore down on him, making him yelp in surprise. The bristles hadn't been at all broken in, and a quick dip in the water wasn't nearly enough to soften them up before they were raked harshly across his back.

For the first few seconds Jon's arm ran on autopilot, using the broad, no-nonsense strokes that a long-time bachelor with his own place learns to take when wielding a brush, water sloshing up to the edges of the tub as the man in it was shoved back and forth. Only after several swipes did he catch himself, doing a double-take at the wide pink diagonal stripes he had left on Stephen's skin.

Dipping his chin into the water, Stephen whuffed a layer of bubbles out of his way and looked reproachfully up at Jon. "I'm still dirty."

"R-right," stammered Jon. "Of course. Hold still."

After planting his paws on the edge of the tub and resting his head on them, Stephen held very still indeed, except for a few irrepressible wriggles, while Jon gave the brush a thorough lathering up.

He started slower this time, scrubbing in gentle circles, trying at first to avoid the rapidly-fading red marks. But Stephen's continued outbursts of wriggling made that impossible, and he only calmed down when Jon settled into an indiscriminate back-and-forth rhythm. For a brief moment Jon wondered, and not for the first time, who was training who.

Not that he minded. Frankly, it was hard to mind anything when he had Stephen rocking back and forth beneath him, wet and slippery and making little whimpering noises with every thrust, and if the subtext here was rapidly becoming text as far as Jon's pants were concerned, well, a quick glance through the waves told him that Stephen had gone there long ago.

He picked up the pace, throwing his whole back into the effort, and if he was going to be sore in the morning, well, it was worth it.

**four: that dog won't hunt**

 

"Not sure we should go for those," muttered Jon under his breath, while Stephen gazed longingly at the rack of chew toys. "They're engineered for actual canine teeth, and yours, uh—"

"Jon?" broke in a female voice. "Jon Stewart?"

Mentally readying his poorly-lit-fan-photo smile, Jon looked up. In the next instant, all forced emotions scattered from his mind. "No way. Tracey McShane?"

"He remembers me!" exclaimed Tracey with mock disdain, before breaking into a grin that could stop traffic. "How've you been? Fame and fortune treating you well?"

"Can't complain," admitted Jon sheepishly, then set down his basket, the better to let her pull him into a fervent hug. "You look great. How've you been? Still acting? Still doing the crosswords?"

"Never miss the crosswords. The acting, well — would you believe I'm a vet now?" She laughed at Jon's poorly hidden surprise. "Yeah, not exactly an intuitive career path."

"Sure, but you always loved animals, right? It works. So that's why you're here?"

"Sort of. I decided to take home this rescue cat, we were going to put him down if nobody volunteered, he has colon issues — I'll let you imagine the details," she added with a wry smile, as Jon made a face. "How about you?"

"Me? Well, uh, I do this show, you probably haven't seen it, it's on basic cable...."

Tracey whacked him playfully on the shoulder. "Smartass."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks."

"And modest, too! No, why are you _here?_ And does it have something to do with the friend you haven't bothered to introduce yet?"

And wasn't _that_ a kick to the gut. "Oh, god, I'm sorry," groaned Jon, turning to Stephen, who, to his relief, did not appear to be on the verge of biting someone. "Stephen, this is Tracey, we were in a movie together a while back. Tracey, this is Stephen. He's — uh—"

"I'm the friend who knows about dogs," supplied Stephen. "He has a new dog, so I'm helping him pick stuff out."

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear it! What breed?"

"Mixed," said Stephen promptly. "Looks like part Irish wolfhound. Pretty large."

"Funny ears," put in Jon, trying to get into the swing of things. Stephen trod on his foot.

"Well, I'll let you get back to it," smiled Tracey, then pressed a card into Jon's hand. "The office. Your dog ever gets sick, or needs some shots, give us a call. Or, listen, if you want to have lunch some time, catch up — if I'm not in the office, leave a message and I'll get back. All right?"

"Got it." Jon squeezed her hand. "It was great to run into you again."

Tracey fairly glowed at him before scooping up her own basket. "See you around."

Her hips and ponytail swung as she walked away, and Jon allowed himself a moment — just a moment — of wistful memory for the way they moved, the way her hair tossed when she laughed.

"You used to sleep with her," hissed Stephen.

Jon tried not to feel like the cat who swallowed the canary. Of course he had dated people before this — this whatever-it-was. He had a right to that, no matter how jealous Stephen got over it. "Uh, yes."

"And you'll notice," continued Stephen pointedly, "that I did not snipe at her, yell at her, growl at her, give her the cold shoulder, or challenge her to even the _tiniest_ duel to the death."

"Hey, yeah," realized Jon, perking up. "You were perfectly civil, weren't you?"

Stephen sulked. "You don't have to sound so surprised."

**five: the size of the fight in the dog**

 

"Don't you want to take that thing off?"

"I like this hat, Jon. It's classy."

"But aren't you the least bit hot?"

"Don't be silly. That's why God gave us air conditioning."

"Stephen, I'm not going to crank the AC for the whole office just so you can wear a—"

Jon cut himself off. He wasn't going to get into one of Stephen's nonsense debates, that's what he was not going to do. Not only was he terrible at them to begin with, but Stephen was still jet-lagged, which put Jon at a disadvantage.

Instead, he bit his lip and slipped into what he still thought of as 'the game', never mind that a big part of the appeal was how it gave Stephen permission to be real. "Come on, boy. Give it here."

Stephen took a step back and whined, hunching his shoulders and pulling the flaps of the deerstalker down almost to his chin.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Jon held forth a hand, not grabbing or patting, just offering it up.

After studying the offering for a moment, Stephen dropped to the ground and shuffled forward, until he was close enough to stretch his head out and lick Jon's knuckles. "'M sorry."

"It's okay," repeated Jon, brushing his fingers across Stephen's cheek. "You're not in trouble."

"B-but—" Sitting back on his haunches, Stephen gave the deerstalker a timid shove backwards, just enough to reveal the fuzzy point of his newly shorn widow's peak. "It's not _silky_. So you won't like it any more."

Jon couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

"S-Stephen!" he panted at last, teary with mirth, unable even to muster up any guilt at the other man's wounded eyes. "I've been waiting to get my hands on that hair of yours all week! Get _over_ here."

Stephen scooted tentatively forward, then yelped in surprise as Jon fell upon him, tossing aside the hat and using both hands to rub his new layer of fuzz with gusto. At first he cowered under the onslaught, but Jon's touch was nothing less than loving, and slowly he built up the courage return the affection: pawing at Jon's chest, nosing his neck, tentatively headbutting him under the chin.

They ran out of steam sooner rather than later, Jon backing up against the armchair for support while Stephen slumped comfortably across his chest and trailed off along the floor.

"I don't love your hair, Stephen," he remarked.

Stephen let out an indignant whine.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Two of Jon's fingertips had settled on a patch of fuzz that had once been a cowlick, humming back and forth as they absorbed the memory of this new feel. "We can still do the puppy thing like this. I'll pet what's left of your hair and call you a good boy and so on and so forth. But I'm not with you because of your silky hair. I'm with you because, when you're not pretending to be a dog, you go out and do ridiculous brilliant things like fly your crew halfway around the world and spend the week in a war zone, all in the name of supporting our troops. I'm with you because you're a good _man_."

It was a few moments before Stephen answered: not in the breathless and almost cartoonish puppy-voice, but in very nearly his natural cadences. "Jon?"

"Yeah?"

With a subtle shift of position, Stephen's irreverent sprawl turned into something that could have passed for a traditional embrace. "It isn't...only...your dog that adores you with every fiber of his being."


End file.
